


Hunted

by ContessaQuill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Cersei as Evil Queen, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fairy Tale Retellings, Sandor as Huntsman, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa as Snow White, Sansa is very innocent, Shameless Smut, Snow White Elements, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), snow white and the huntsman elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContessaQuill/pseuds/ContessaQuill
Summary: SanSan Snow White AU: Sansa has been the Lannister's captive for three years. When she escapes her gilded cage, Queen Cersei sends the Hound-the most fearsome huntsman in the kingdom- to hunt her down. Sansa is aged-up for this fic.





	1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

Once upon a time, long, long ago a king and queen ruled over the cold, snow-capped lands of the North.

King Eddard Stark was a just and honorable ruler and beloved by his people. The only sadness in the royal couple’s life was that they wished for a child— an heir— but could not have one. It didn’t matter how often the queen visited the sept and prayed to the Mother or how many links there were on the chains of the maesters they consulted in their grief. Every year Queen Catelyn gave birth to a little boy and every year they had to bury the babe in the dark, icy crypts under the castle.

One winter morning, the queen was doing needle work on the edge of a frozen pond underneath the ancient weirwood tree. A little bird flew by, startling the queen and she pricked her finger with the needle. Three drops of blood fell on the snow and as she looked at the melancholy face of the heart tree that was carved into the bone-white bark she thought desperately to herself, “How I wish I had a daughter with skin white as snow, lips blood-red as the leaves of the heart tree, and hair the color of the morning dawn.”

Maybe her husband’s gods would answer her heart-felt prayer.

Soon after that, the Queen gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who had skin white as snow, lips blood-red as the leaves of a heart tree, and hair the color of the morning dawn. They named her Sansa and the king and the queen treasured their daughter above anything else. The kingdom celebrated for weeks after the little princess’s birth.

Not long after Sansa’s ninth nameday the ravens begun carrying the first offers of marriage to Winterfell. Alas, it was not until the girl’s fourteenth nameday that King Eddard paid the proposal any heed and engaged Sansa to the son and heir of his oldest friend, King Robert, who ruled the South with a jug of wine and a harem of whores at the ready.

To publicly declare the joining of their houses and kingdoms, King Eddard and Sansa were invited to King’s Landing while the queen stayed behind at the castle as a mysterious illness had befallen her. Though reluctant to leave his sick wife behind, the king accepted King Robert’s invitation and rode south with retainers of servants and noblemen.

They were all betrayed.

Halfway through the betrothal feast, Gold Cloaks unsheathed their swords and turned against King Eddard’s knights, even their own king.

No king survived the bloodshed. And when two king’s heads were mounted on pikes, when the young princess was locked in the highest tower of the Red Keep and the floor covered in dead men’s blood and Dornish wine, Queen Cersei picked up two crowns. She placed one on her golden head and the other on her son’s. Then she called to arms.


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

**Sansa**

Sansa scrunched up her little snub nose in concentration as she looked down at the elaborate needle work resting in her lap. She’d messed up her threats again. Her hands felt clumsy today, her stitches not as perfect as they usually were. She’d worked on the cloak whenever her nosy handmaidens weren’t peering over her shoulder, scrambling to hide it at the bottom of her chest when she heard them approach.

It was a small act of rebellion.

She let her slender, pale fingers brush over the fierce gray direwolf head that was embroidered on finely-spun white cloth. Her work was almost complete. Only the fur lining at the collar was still missing. Sansa sighed sadly, putting her embroidery ring aside.

She’d probably never get a chance to wear it in that gilded cage the Lannisters had locked her inside. The harsh norther winds never reached King’s Landing. Even if the Blackwater should freeze over, Sansa wasn’t allowed to leave the Tower of the Hand for more than a leisurely stroll around the rose gardens, anyhow.

She missed Winterfell with its icy, muddy roads and gray towers and the cold that had swept through the cracks in her window and chilled her toes. Oh, how she missed playing in the snow, building imaginary castles out of the fluffy white mounds in Winterfell’s courtyard. She silently reprimanded herself for how childish she sounded. Romping about in the snow wasn’t appropriate behavior for a princess, her mother would say.

Sansa’s heart sank as she thought of her. Had she escaped before the Lannister armies had razed the North to the ground? The last Sansa had heard of Queen Catelyn, she’d been bedridden and administered milk of the poppy on Maester Luwin’s behest.

Sansa was wiping at her eyes when the door to her chambers opened and Shae entered, carrying a new dress of apple-green Myrish silk over her arm. Sansa didn’t try to hide her unfinished cloak. After Queen Cersei had sent Jeyne away, Shae was her truest friend and ally in a den full of lions. She’d never betray her trust and report back to the queen, unlike the other handmaidens, Sansa was sure of that.

“It’s dangerous taking that out in the middle of the day, mylady,” Shae reprimanded her, nodding toward the cloak as she helped her into the dress. She tightened the laces around Sansa’s tiny waist a bit too brusquely for a trained handmaiden. “It’s not worth loosing your pretty head over some embroidery, trust me on this.”

“I was bored. There isn’t anything to do in my rooms. I can only stare out of the window for so long until I shall fling myself out of it,” Sansa pouted, instantly horrified at how much of a brat she acted.

Shae made a rude sound as she pulled a comb through Sansa’s hair, manipulating it into one of the complicated southern hairstyles that were fashionable with the ladies at court. “The Queen has invited you to have luncheon with her and that pompous little shit of a king.”

Sansa gasped at her handmaiden’s crass words “You can’t talk about King Joffrey like that.” At the same time, her heart was flinging itself backward against the bars of her ribcage. Surly, Joffrey would make a sport out of torment her again, she thought with a shudder. What if he would have her beaten again? She still had the ugly yellow and purple bruises to show for the last time Joffrey had one of his Kingsguard take the flat of their blade to the thin skin of her back and thighs.

Wincing at the painful memory, Sansa smoothed down her skirts as a gauntleted fist pounded against her chamber door, making the wood creak and tremble under it.

“Who’s there?” Shae called, her hand closing around the comb as if she planned to attack whoever was at the other side of that door.

“We’re to escort the little princess to the Queen’s solar,” answered the gruff voice of Ser Meryn. “Now open up, wench, before we kick the bloody door down.”

Sansa swallowed anxiously but nodded for Shae to let them in. She folded her hands demurely in her lap. Out of the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant was the one she feared the most. He was cruel, with a vinegar breath and the stench of old sweat permeating from the cracks in his breastplate. He seemed to take joy in hurting her, and his eyes— pale and cold and without compassion like those of a lizard—looked at Sansa in a way that made her blood chill with terror.

Ser Meryn and Ser Boros entered her rooms, their gleaming golden plates chinking as they moved heavily. The sound made Sansa want to curl up like a child, conserving space.

“Come now. Be a good girl and follow us,” Ser Meryn rasped with a leer. They gripped Sansa by her arms, the metal biting sharply into her soft white skin, and pulled her none too gently from her bedchamber. Sansa looked curiously around. She rarely left her rooms. The Red Keep hadn’t changed since she’d walked its halls at her father’s side, three years ago. The salty ocean breeze brought the rotten smell of the city with it— unwashed bodies, foreign spices and something sour like curdled milk.

“Don’t dawdle, young lady,” Ser Boros said, giving her arm a boorish tug. “The King won’t like that you him wait. Do you want to be lashed, girl?” Once she’d thought their golden armor meant that they were knights like in the tales her septa had told her. She’d been so very wrong. The man who had cut down her father in front of her had worn a shiny armor as well. Bile rose in the back of her throat as she remembered how King Eddard’s head had drooped forward with the slash of the sword, attached to the rest of his body by bits of muscle and ruined flesh. Another blow and his head had hit the floor with a sickening thud. Sansa had fainted then.

Her thoughts quietened down as Ser Meryn pushed open the huge double doors to Queen Cersei’s apartments. The queen was seated at a table, laden with platters of steaming butter-golden pigeon pie, creamy goat cheese and exotic Dornish fruit. She was talking to King Joffrey who seemed to be in the midst of throwing a tantrum. His wormy lips pulled into a sulking frown. Servants were picking up the shards of a shattered jug which had fallen victim to Joff’s vicious temper from the floor.

Sansa couldn’t believe that she’d swooned over him when she’d first arrived at King’s Landing. He might look like a golden lion, her brave knight riding in on a white steed to save her, but in truth he was the evil scaly monster, twisted and rotten to the core.

Joffrey’s mood shifted abruptly as he spied her stiff form in the doorway, his eyes taking on an eager, malicious gleam. “Sansa! What took you so long? Don’t just stand there, stupid girl. Come over here.” He snapped his fingers at her as if she were a lapdog he could order about. Didn’t he know that she was a wolf, Sansa thought.

Holding her head up high, she moved toward him and bobbed a curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she said quietly.

Cersei’s lips twitched. “Little dove, sit.” She gestured toward the seat opposite her. “You look beautiful today. The color is lovely on you.”

“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” Sansa recited obediently.

“Did you hear, Sansa?” Joffrey crooned around a mouthful of chicken. “Our forces have finally breached the gates of that freezing dump you call a castle. It’s probably nothing more than rubble and ashes by now. The last of the Northern resistance has been broken. Roose Bolton is the King in the North now.”

Sansa’s heartbeat stuttered. Bolton as in her father’s bannerman? She’d seen Lord Bolton once at the harvest feast. He’d seemed so… dead. Like one of those cold creatures Old Nan had always raved about. The thought of a man like Roose Bolton in her home made her sick to the stomach.

Cersei gave her a sly sideway glance, sipping her wine. “Are you feeling well, little dove? You’re looking quite pale.”

“I—”

“You’re Joff’s betrothed,” she said. “You should congratulate him on his military successes.”

Knotting her small hands in the folds of her skirts under the table, Sansa looked up from her empty plate. “Congratulations, my King.”

“I don’t think she means it, mother,” drawled Joffrey. He waved dismissively. “It matters not, we’ll be wedded and bedded in a few days. Does that please you, Sansa? To become my Queen.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “So soon? But I’m not of age yet,” she gasped. At the tightening around the Queen’s mouth, she hurried to add, “It pleases me greatly, I just didn’t think—”

“Of course, you didn’t think. It is a good thing that you won’t have to talk during our wedding night. You’re passably beautiful, I’ll give you that. Let’s hope you’ll be a decent fuck,” Joffrey snickered at his own jape, slapping his thigh.

“There’s no need to be so crude, Joff,” Cersei chided, but her mouth was curled in a thin smile. “Such things are not meant for the ears of noble maidens. At least not until their wedding night.” She turned to Sansa. “You may take your leave now, little dove.”

Sansa didn’t resist as Ser Boros and Ser Meryn stepped forward and took her away. She would be married to a monster and her mother wasn’t even there to console her and ease her nerves before the wedding night. She knew that it hurt when lords made their ladies their wives in truth. She was sure Joffrey would make it hurt more just for the sake of tormenting her.

Back in her room, Sansa quickly stripped her clothes off, slipping into her nightgown although the sun hadn’t even touched the mirror-smooth surface of Blackwater Bay yet. She sat on the edge of her bed when she noticed a small note tucked into her bedsheets. Had someone been in her room? Unfolding the scrap of paper, Sansa read.

_The North remembers._

_Come to the godswood at midnight._

_— A friend._


End file.
